


kiss it better

by velleitees



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tour Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 09:37:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15337047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velleitees/pseuds/velleitees
Summary: dan runs into a bench and phil kisses it better, maybe





	kiss it better

**Author's Note:**

> based on the most recent AmazingPhil video at around 6:00 where dan runs into a bench and sends 2 images of his legs to phil. #domestic
> 
> just a note: there isn't graphic descriptions of blood but if it does make you uncomfortable, please do click away.

June approaches without any prior incidents so they let their guards down, mistakenly. Phil downs an espresso on one out of the thirty days in June — his sleeping patterns have grown increasingly abnormal as he’s torn from time zone to time zone. Instead, he sits on one of the couches in the waiting rooms, drifting off whenever time allows, struggling to stay awake. A fan blows drowsily overhead. Sleep weighs heavy on his eyelids when his phone stirs, and stirs, and stirs. Phil sighs.

[Dan] [15:33] something happened

[Dan] [15:33] also both legs

[Dan] [15:34] (image attached)

[Dan] [15:34] (image attached)

[Dan] [15:35] does it look bad

He frowns at the images, brows furrowing as panic seizes him all at once. Two almost identical cuts can be seen through the pixels, both bleeding and scary-looking.

[Phil] [15:38] what do you freaking mean does it look bad?

[Phil] [15:39] Dan you’re bleeding

[Dan] [15:41] well no shit

[Dan] [15:41] answer my question

[Phil] [15:42] (emoji)

[Phil] [15:43] have you told management?

[Dan] [15:43] no

[Phil] [15:44] what. why?

[Dan] [15:45] so it is bad

[Phil] [15:45] i’m coming to you

[Phil] [15:46] where are you?

[Dan] [15:46] my leg feels like it’s about to fall off

[Dan] [15:47] near a bench somewhere idk

[Dan] [15:47] close to the set?

[Dan] [15:48] hurry i’m gonna get blood all over my fucking jeans

Phil is usually responsible for the accidents, for the blue and purple marking his shin, his elbows, for the gashes and cuts and scars that have lightened from the past. But Dan’s careful, much more graceful and far more acquainted with spatial awareness than he is. The clumsy accidents that occur with Dan are often few and far between. Phil’s stumbling across the set over cords and wires when he hears a weak sigh.

_He is in pain._

“Dan—” Phil calls, feet scrambling towards the sound. “Don’t move.”

“Relax you drama queen — I’m fine. It’s just a cut, Phil—”

“I said don’t move.” Dan is sat on the floor when Phil finally reaches him, pants rolled just below his knees and a very sheepish look adorning his face. “I’m honestly surprised we lasted this long.”

“And for once it’s not you," Dan adds, sullenly. 

“What were you even _doing_?” Phil sighs, perplex, bending down to inspect the streak of crimson mirrored on both shins. He holds onto one ankle, moving it sideways a bit to better see the damage. It’s deep, but not deep enough for stitches. “Come on, let’s get it cleaned up.”

He's hauled onto his feet and Dan follows Phil out, exasperate maybe, but mostly embarrassed. He flinches with every step. Phil has an arm wrapped around Dan's middle, awfully aware of the prying eyes he's searching for. It’s an unbroken habit among the other unbroken habits, one that’s unbidden and feels almost entirely impossible to lose. The sofa lets out a small whimper when Phil pushes Dan down on it, propping his legs up on the table.

“It’s going to scar,” Phil points out warily. “What did you even do?”

“I just—,” Dan gestures around him vaguely, flinching when Phil holds him still. His answering grimace is a little thin, a little ashamed, and Phil’s grip becomes gentler. “A bench. Me. My phone.”

Phil huffs out a weak laugh and says, “So you weren’t looking.”

“Maybe.”

Silence inhabits the room as Phil walks off in search of a first-aid kit while Dan presses cotton on his cut. Phil’s hands are slightly jittery when he locates the box, still unsettled by seeing Dan get hurt. It doesn’t happen often — the getting hurt, the falling ill — even when it’s trivial or insignificant it’s hard not to worry, and Phil tries to avoid thinking about it when he can. Fear has a way of residing in the spaces between his ribs, unrelenting. He loathes seeing Dan get hurt because somehow, it aches for him, too.

“Don’t — don’t let this happen again if you can. Watch where you’re going.”

“Well it’s not like I wanted to walk into a fucking _bench_ ,” Dan scoffs, but there’s no acid to his words, pulling away a little when Phil dabs antiseptic on the wound, mostly because it stings and partly because Phil’s lips are pressed into a thin line. He never loosens his grip. Dan’s tone of voice, then, turns softer: “Sorry.”

“I’m the one who’s supposed to get hurt around here,” Phil tries for a laugh but it falls flat, falls short. He’s tired, so tired. Dan leans closer to him, repentant, knowing.

The reality is that it is silly to be wound up over this amongst the ocean of things he has to face. Issues holding greater gravity, of what's in the bigger picture. This is nothing other than a stumbling block, he thinks briefly, though he doesn’t tell Dan how important he is to him, how much he worried, how much he cares that he walked into a goddamn bench.

The plaster stuck over the two wounds is slightly askew, but it’ll have to do for now. Phil tilts Dan’s ankle to the side, pressing on the edges of the band-aid, allows the corners of his mouth turn upwards. “You did a shitty job,” Dan mumbles. “Have to do it again back at the hotel.”

“Does it hurt?”

Maybe there’s sitting too close, now. Long legs on his lap, hands still touching skin with quiet all around them. “You could kiss it better,” his proposition is words casually thrown in the wind, and while it’s tempting, parts of Phil forbid this while the other parts of him wants this so bad, _so bad_. “My grandma used to say it works,” he says, absentmindedly. Although Dan’s eyes stay wide and unblinking, his words are severely deliberate.

It’s not the time — not at all. People are coming and going, doors opening and closing to an uneven rhythm, making up the soundtrack of what two months of their lives have been.

“I'm not your grandmother.”

“Still. You mean as much to me.”

The organ in the cavity of Phil’s chest stutters, stammering staccatos that don’t quite make sense. “You want me to kiss your leg?” 

Dan shrugs, shifting forward until he’s mere inches away from Phil, legs dangling over the armrest, “You could substitute it with someplace else.”

He flicks Dan on the forehead, and shakes his head. “You’re awful.”

“Am I?”

“Mostly, yes. Other times, not as much.”

“You could make it feel better,” Dan says, grinning, “because it _does_ hurt. You said it was going to scar—”

“I did.”

“ _So_ —,” Phil tilts his head down just to hear Dan’s breath hitch, his words dying in his mouth and cheeks stained rosy pink. Dan has nice legs, Phil reckons, as he touches the skin around the plaster, examining it with intellectual curiosity. He chuckles when Dan whines and shoves him back a bit. “You suck.” He tears his leg away from Phil’s grip, shifting his weight until Phil can feel the gentle ghost of a breath fanned across the side of his face. Dan’s getting restless, a little more reckless now that they’re older — and so is he.

They sit close, knees touching. It’s quiet and comfortable and when Phil looks at Dan it _aches_ , a physical pain that stings the flesh between his ribs, poking his lungs until they rob him of any oxygen. A stray jacket is thrown over their intertwined hands, and they’re in a position that almost looks as though they’re cuddling. It’s a perilous thing, the touching and the staring, and Phil doesn’t know whether they’ve been getting better at this or getting worse. Dan looks at him, expectant, while Phil brushes the skin of his knuckles with his thumb.

“My lips are dry.” It’s a sudden declaration. Phil snorts. Dan huffs like his chapped lips are a rare occurrence, pressing them together, licking them.

They really, really should be preparing for the show right now but Phil is also really, really distracted right now. Dan's pretty and distracting, and truthfully, he doesn't really want to stop staring. 

Phil allows his free hand to hold onto Dan’s chin, tilting his face so he has a better view of it in mock inspection. It’s dry, chapped like he said. “I have lip balm in my bag. I can go get it if you want,” Phil answers, softly. The look Dan sends his way is unexpectedly gentle today, more so than usual. He runs his thumb along Dan’s lower lip. Dan parts his lips, taking the tip of his thumb between his mouth, sucking lightly. It’s intimate and equally as careless considering all the others are a mere few feet away, and Phil's breath catches in his throat. The room is as quiet as a grave, the kind of quiet that only comes with the longing and the secrets.

“Kiss it better.” A teasing smirk dimples his cheeks.

Phil chuckles. “You can’t kiss your dry lips away, Dan,” he replies, but leans in anyway because he’s completely, utterly weak; and maybe he’s growing older, and maybe he’s started caring less and less. He can have this, he thinks. _He deserves this._

Dan surges forward to meet him halfway. It’s a slow, languid kiss, like they’ve got all the time in the world and not the hour they have left till they are supposed to leave. It’s a kiss that’s comfortable, familiar, one that feels like forever and a forever that doesn’t sound too daunting if it is with the man he’s together with. Dan’s legs are still on his lap, and Phil strokes the sides of it up and down, a hand on his chin. He presses his lips against the pale of Dan’s throat, feeling his pulse falter at the sensation before meeting Dan’s mouth again. When they eventually pull apart, Dan sighs, leaning into the hollow of his collarbones, and Phil can feel the smile pressed into it.

“We should probably go.”

He straightens up. “Should we really? I mean we could leave them wondering about why we were late — they love that shit, they _thrive_ on it—”

“Or we could leave and go do what we’re supposed to.” He stretches, body protesting in ways he never thought they could before.

Dan just rolls his eyes. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Also, speaking of—,” Phil tugs down the front of his shirt until a purple blossom appears, striking against his fairness and painfully, painfully visible, “you can kiss this better once we’re back in the hotel.”

He does, of course, many hours later. They kiss and kiss until they’re not kissing anymore, and hands are slipped underneath shirts, underneath jeans. Removing Dan’s clothes is a slow process, and his breathing is even while Phil’s is ragged, shaky. He kisses down his neck, his chest, tracing his fingers along the pretty lines he possesses before Dan stops him. He presses his lips to the bruise spread on Phil’s sternum, smiling.

And Dan, indeed, kisses it better. He kisses and touches and presses in a way that makes his whole body tremble, and tremble, and tremble.

**Author's Note:**

> yell at me [@velleitees](https://velleitees.tumblr.com/) on tumblr? i made the thing.


End file.
